May 4 by The Running Son
Ok. note. I’m in a difficult place right now. Difficult like I dont know really how to write, what style, what about. Overnight I just don’t know.
24 hours ago I was pretty sure it was art and poetry. You guys were ok with that, and were ok with a yet earlier bi-theme shift from the “reporter” and my jumpy and overcrafted views on nice things. Meanwhile I was grasping, trying to find my place in the blog world like too late to be playing in the sandbox, me and my many playthings.
Hell before that it was all iSerious jim, choking out theorys on octaves and some other… springy happy things. Then before that, This place was the Antarctic, a museum, a hushed, no rustling in the underbrush type of library. Happy bloggin upward!<—sarcasm
Soo back to the point. I’m between two worlds. Two feelings, two blog ideas or something. Or I think I’m between two manic-depressive states. or the art I need to create. Or between parents. The birth parents I never met and the ones I’ll never forget.
Wow, or maybe I’m in between writing styles. Like some obstruction blew out of the choke-hold I was in and freed up a flow that was always there. Or perhaps, I am between housing, jobs, loves, friends, illnesses, guest blogs, conversations with dad, conversations we never had, or should of or can. or maybe I am in between Heaven and earth, not really knowing where I am, writing it out to you, to the many energies that are dialed in to the frequency of difficult times and displacement, and needing too much and things that we as beings clothe over and don’t make public.
Or maybe it’s just being between two lights, that look like darkness, but aren’t. They are the edges of our lives. birth, the purity, the child, eyes that gaze out at heaven, because thats what it is for them. It’s perfect, no holes or scars or seams, at first. All light and babies eyes taking it all in with incalculable expansive ability. To work without the ability of categories or words, no past memories to bounce thoughts off of, but it’s ok. It happens on it’s own, crazy energy taking every hand that is offered and every fact or brilliantly colored thing, taking it for what it is. And it is everything, the ultimate parental, “it’s ok”.
But. Inevitability. The first “slap!” of pain or correction or failure changes this and we become reflective, not a bad thing, but we stop. look back. something said no, and we don’t know what to do. First loss, loss of the contact we had, the rhythm, the flow, the OK-ness of going on with this wonderful exploring of beauty when “everything goes”.
And so it goes. a shame. We become a me and a you, separate. Protected. jumping and grasping for the words to make sense of things, right job bad haircut, go to your room when we really mean I love you. Don’t go, or don’t be like that so it can be easy for me to be with you. Shit.
Listen. I dont know where this started, but my bi-topic blog, or post, or prosaic styling or my bi-rhyming when I out to be just writing, whatever, I’m kind of going with it I think. So, this is it. Whatever it is. I think I just figured that out.
I’m between things. Death I cant speak of, or the timelines that divide lives or things like that. Only what I know, so that other great light, they say it’s a light, ok, that light can seem like the greatest mad dad or swirling vortex you could possibly imagine, but its an an illusion. they tell me. They say there are future lives and past idle failures and missed love connections to be had, and understood. A unification of sorts, that coils up the spine, coning vertebrae, and drives and multiple lifetimes, and focusing, and expanding, mind, upwards, toward the area above and around us, firmly grounded, and sound.
I like that. But death, is taxing.
And I need to eat something. And guess what, I am going to call my dad.
Bless you guys.